I don’t go to half my classes. It’s really a problem, and I don’t know how to solve it. I feel so stressed out when I don’t do my work; and when I’m actually working, it feels so good and satisfying, especially since I love what I study. Yet somehow, I still manage to avoid all productivity and responsibility.
I try to tell myself I can avoid distractions &c. by myself, that I don’t need some clever open source program that blocks Facebook or blogs or news sites, but I’m not sure if I can keep it up for more than a few days at a time. This last week was so productive for me, I wrote one long paper for one of my Anthro classes and made a pseudo-zine as a midterm project for another one. Yesterday I actually managed to get out of bed and work on a paper that I thought was due in class, but turned out not to be. I love classes, I love reading, and I love writing. I still avoid it like it’s going to kill me, and it doesn’t make sense. It just makes me exra-stressed and flipped out.
I went to Brooklyn last night, to the 123 space to volunteer at the Freegan Bike Workshop, and to build my own bike. I worked for 3.3 hours sorting through tubes and cutting up the ones that were irreparable. I only managed to patch up three tubes though, not out of laziness or slowness, but for lack of patching material. At the end of the day, I walked around with a friend and picked out a minty green (!!!) bike frame and claimed it by putting my name on a tag and tying it around the front tire. Over the next few weeks I’ll be schlepping to 123 and slowly putting my own bike together, building it out of spare parts and desire.
I’m actually rather decent with my hands, or maybe it’s only surprising because I hardly use my hands for anything other than sex, writing, cooking, and tying my shoes. When I was cutting up and putting my zine together I felt that sense of satisfaction that you get from making something; I also felt it when I was handling the tubes, getting grime and glue on my fingers.
Whenever I look at my hands I think about what I can do with them, what makes them feel skilled. I like the way they look and I think they’re pretty good at certain things, which makes me – and hopefully, other people – happy. My entire life, I’ve wanted my hands to look like my dad’s- working hands, hands that make. His hands can build things and hold things tightly and have cuts and burns, but they’re also gentle when he writes longhand and still subtle when he draws and paints.
As for the good feeling of making something, I think I also feel it when I write something- writing has always felt like an act of the hands for me, as much as anything else. The only difference is that, even when you print a text out, it’s not tangible in the same way as any other crafted thing. The closest you can get to it is with a collage- you manipulate the text, arrange it in space, give it shape even if it’s only on a 2-dimensional plane.
Working on my midterm project has really made me want to write a couple of zines. I have some images and texts I think I’ll recycle, and I’m excited for it. Even though it was made at the last minute and came out a little less than fully satisfactory, was a good first zine-making experience.
I’ve realized that I’m actually decent at something else as well- I’m not quite as inept as I used to be at making friends. Recently I’ve had the chance to really go ahead and engage with people I greatly, honestly like and want to be friends with, and surprisingly, I’ve approached them and we’ve had a good time. It’s always heartening as hell to know that people appreciate me and want to talk to me.
Maybe this year is the year to read Germinal during Germinal. If I manage to get through my Anthro readings in the next week, I’ll attempt it. I’m learning Catalan. I’m making mix CD’s of songs and emotional investment. I love many people in many ways.
Ça va bien.
